Mindset
by moonlighten
Summary: 2013: Scotland and France attend a concert in Cardiff together. Their evening doesn't turn out the way Scotland expected. Companion piece to Just One Thing. (Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.


The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are linked (in chronological order) on my profile page.  
-

* * *

**-  
July 2013; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
By the time Scotland returns from the theatre's bar with their drinks, France is deep in conversation with some bloke of the usual type he attracts when they're out and about and Scotland has left him unattended for more than five minutes: young, tall, and willowy, with shiny hair and even shinier teeth, and wearing trousers that look as though they've been sprayed on.

He'll be called something like Hugo or Rupert; have studied Politics or Economics at Oxbridge but since graduating discovered that his _real_ passion lies in music, or writing, or creating sculptures out of cat hair, much to the despair of his father the judge/surgeon/captain of industry; and he'll laugh like a donkey with laryngitis.

Scotland has no idea how they pick France out of a crowd so easily or zero in on him so quickly, but his working hypothesis is that they must follow some sort of pheromone trail that France unwittingly puts out.

A few years back, Scotland would have hated to see him there, standing so close to France, talking to him in a low, earnest voice and finding any old excuse to touch his shoulder, his elbow, his hip. But then, a few years back, he'd had no guarantee that France wouldn't sod off with Hugo/Rupert, leaving Scotland to watch the concert alone, or, more likely, drown his sorrows at the nearest pub which doesn't charge the best part of a fiver for a pint.

There's no chance of that now. Now, the worst that could happen is France laughingly suggesting a threesome, to which Scotland would laughingly reply, 'Not a chance in hell', and no more would ever be said about it.

Now, he can approach France and Hugo/Rupert with easy self-assurance – knowing that France will greet his arrival not with indifference or irritation as he used to in these circumstances but with a peck on the cheek – and also take petty joy in the poisonous glare Hugo/Rupert subjects him to when France introduces him as, "My partner, Alasdair."

"Sebastian," not-actually-Hugo-or-Rupert says, clasping Scotland's hand once Scotland has passed France's glass of wine to him.

His grip is tight, grinding down hard on Scotland's knuckles in a way that would probably be painful to a human. Scotland smiles politely at him and doesn't squeeze back, because _he_ has no reason to engage in a pissing contest. And, besides, he knows he could crush Sebastian's bones into dust with nothing more than a twitch of his fingers, so he's got nothing to prove, anyway.

When Sebastian drops his hand – casts it away, more like; suddenly and abruptly, as though it's smeared in something unspeakable and he's been soiled by the contact – France catches it up. His grip, in contrast, is light and relaxed, which suggests he is enjoying Sebastian's company. They don't often hold hands in public, and when they do, it's generally because France wants to silently convey some sort of message to Scotland: a brush of his thumb against Scotland's palm means that he wants to talk to him privately; digging in his nails bespeaks a need to escape.

The loose twine of his fingers means he's happy exactly where he is, so Scotland will have to grin and bear whatever passes for Sebastian's conversation, which turns out to be – unsurprisingly – wholly preoccupied with himself, and the career in music he's been trying to pursue since he graduated from Oxford with a 2:1 in Economics and Management.

His voice is flat and slightly nasal, which makes his self-absorbed speech even more tedious to pretend to listen to, and he drones on and on without enough of a pause to allow Scotland and France to make an interjection, even if they'd wanted to.

Scotland certainly doesn't, fearing that he'll mistake any sort of question as encouragement rather than politeness, and knowing that he'd resist all attempts to change the subject. And France seems rapt, his eyes intent on Sebastian's face, and a small, charmed smile curling his lips.

So, Scotland stays silent and holds France hand, sips on his pint, and entertains himself with thoughts of punting Sebastian out of the nearest window until a chime tone resounds through the bar, signalling that the performance is soon to start.

"We should get going…" Scotland pauses, considering his next word carefully. Ever since Northern Ireland pointed out that it was odd that he never used English endearments, and France took umbrage at his reticence to start, he has been intermittently working through the roster of them, in an attempt to find one that seems fitting. Now seems as good a time as any to try another one out for size; a timely reminder to Sebastian that the man whose elbow he's in the process of groping is already taken. "Babe," he finishes.

Now that it's out there, Scotland decides he doesn't much like the sound of it. Neither does France, judging by the slight wrinkling of his nose.

"Of course, _mon petit chou_," he says, which just confirms it, and Scotland tosses 'babe' onto his mental scrapheap along with 'sweetheart', 'darling', and 'my dear'.

It may not have worked on France, but the term of affection seems to be just the swift boot up the arse reminder Sebastian needed to make him realise he's perhaps being a little too forward, and he hurriedly lets go of France's arm. Nonetheless, he makes sad noises at the prospect of being parted from France's side, which France assuages by suggesting they might run into each other again during the interval.

Not if Scotland can help it, they won't.

After Sebastian has oiled his way off across the bar, Scotland drains the dregs of his pint and glances towards France's glass to estimate how much longer he might need to finish it.

It's still mostly full.

"How's your wine?" he asks, already suspecting what the answer to that question will be.

France sighs lightly, then leans in and up to give Scotland a kiss. Scotland runs his tongue against his bottom lip afterwards. The faint taste of paint stripper lingers there.

"Jesus. Sorry, _mo chridhe_; that was the best they had." Still, there's no sense in it going to waste, even so. "Do you want me to finish it for you?"

"Please," France says with evident relief, handing him the glass.

Scotland throws back the wine too, quickly enough that it doesn't have chance to hit any of his taste buds on the way down, and then slams both pint- and wine glass down on the nearest table before he and France wend their way through the milling crowds towards the auditorium.

He pauses to buy a programme on the way. It's thick, glossy, and eye-catchingly colourful, but still just paper at the end of the day, and worth nowhere near the tenner he's asked to cough up for it. Ordinarily, he'd scoff at the price, keep his wallet closed and pass, but this is a special occasion and he's meant to be treating France, and doesn't want him to miss out on any part of the experience.

Nonetheless, the price is galling, he still resents paying it, and also, it turns out, the small fortune he'd paid out for their seats, even before the performance begins. They're the best in the house, supposedly, but though they might be well-positioned in the stalls, perfectly situated for a good view of all parts of the stage, they're under-padded and far too narrow. It takes Scotland a moment or two to find the best angle of attack by which to squeeze his bulk in between the armrests without doing himself an injury, and it feels as though he's sitting on bare concrete when he does eventually manage to wedge himself into place.

He shuffles around restlessly, trying to lessen the pressure on his spine, until France gets irritated enough by the constant movement and jostling to hiss out an admonitory, "Aly!"

Scotland subsides then, body twisted at a tortuous angle that will doubtless result in the weak spot on his back giving way at some point during the evening. He'll probably be plagued by sciatica in the morning.

In a bid to distract himself from the pain, he turns to the programme, determined to get his money's worth. Unfortunately, there's not much in the way of distraction to be found within it, or really anything of true substance at all.

It consists mostly of photographs of the composer of tonight's concert, a Welsh wunderkind who France has been raving about for months now, calling him 'bold', 'daring' and the dreaded 'avant-garde'. Scotland had listened to a few pieces by him, nevertheless, encouraged by France's enthusiasm to expect some manner of transcendental aural experience.

What he had learnt, however, was just fresh confirmation that music France thought of as 'daring' just wasn't for him. The pieces were atonal, jarring, and eschewed anything approaching as staid, stodgy, and old-fashioned a concept as a tune.

Scotland had chalked it up as one of the surprisingly infrequent mismatches in taste that he and France were unlikely to overcome, and put it out of his mind for the best part of a year until Wales happened to mention – off-hand, as Wales has an even stronger aversion than Scotland to anything labelled 'avant-garde', practically breaking into hives at the mere mention of the term – that the prodigy had written a new symphony and intended to premiere it in Cardiff, his home town.

Scotland had ordered two tickets without even checking their price first; a mistake he cursed upon receiving that month's credit card statement, but his regrets were soon and thoroughly alleviated by France's delight upon receiving the gift.

As Scotland has seldom inspired such a reaction over the course of the many centuries he has been trying – and most often failing – to give France presents he actually appreciates, he had been delighted too, and eagerly anticipated this concert for months as a consequence. He's not going to let the experience be ruined by substandard seating and tedious, over-priced programmes.

He looks through the whole booklet, regardless, to ensure he gets his money's worth, reading the scanty biography, the overblown, fawning reviews of the composer's previous work, and studying every picture: the composer seated at a piano, fingers poised over the keys; seated at a desk, pen poised over a sheaf of paper; standing in front of some suitably rugged and artfully black and white Welsh scenery, whole body poised to go wandering romantically and dramatically up into the mountains, searching for inspiration in his completely unsuitable shoes. They have no ankle support or any grip to speak of; he'd probably be romantically and dramatically hobbling back to his car in short order.

Scotland closes the programme and passes it along to France, who scours the pages with his full attention and appears entirely, and inexplicably, absorbed by them. Scotland whiles away the time by watching the last few stragglers in the audience as they scurry apologetically to their seats, until the lights dim and the murmured conversations around them hush.

For the first ten minutes or so afterwards, Scotland thinks that the orchestra must still be tuning their instruments, but the longer it goes on, the clearer the horror becomes. _This_ is it; _this_ is what he's paid the best part of _two hundred quid_ to be subjected to for an evening.

It's just as atonal and jarring as the recordings Scotland had listened to but much, much louder, and therefore impossible to ignore or drown out with his own thoughts. Which are impossible to string together with any sort of coherency, anyhow, because every time there is a lull in the cacophony, an oboe will suddenly blare out or a violin screech, startling him and scattering them like chaff.

He looks towards France sidelong, wondering if he is finding the experience even a fraction as disconcerting and unsettling as him. But France seems enrapt again, his eyes fixed avidly on the stage and his head bobbing slightly, as if in time to the beat which doesn't actually exist.

There's no accounting for taste.

Scotland endures, applauds unenthusiastically along with half of the rest of the audience when the music pauses momentarily, then is duly embarrassed when it turns out it was only a part of the piece and not the end of it.

He applauds with much more feeling when it does eventually skitter to a halt long enough to signal that the first movement has finally concluded what feels like an eternity later. He angles his watch into the faint illumination cast out by the stage lights and is disheartened to discover that eternity was apparently synonymous with half an hour.

He sighs and shifts his weight again, hunkering down in his seat in search of some measure of comfort to steady himself for the performance of the soloist who now steps up into the spotlight.

Scotland would never admit as much to Wales, but he has always found Welsh soothing to listen to, lilting and melodic, especially in song. What the bloke on stage does to his brother's language is a travesty, bellowing it out strident and shrieking. If the composer had wanted to capture the essence of someone swearing up a storm because they've got their dick stuck in a mangle, then he's outdone himself, as Scotland imagines it a perfect impression.

It's not exactly a pleasant listening experience, though, and Scotland's head begins to pound with such violence that he feels slightly nauseated by it. His back aches ahead of schedule. He can't even summon up the concentration to 'amuse' himself by listing out geological periods or his old monarchs in his head as he usually does to kill time in particularly boring meetings at work.

When the lights go up, he practically bolts out of his chair and is halfway to the door before he remembers that he's unlikely to find any peace or respite in the bar, given that Sebastian will probably be sniffing around in search of France there.

"Do you fancy going for a fag?" he instead asks France once he catches up with him, and thankfully, France answers with a ready nod.

Outside, the air is cool and damp with the light drizzle that has started to fall whilst they were cooped up and held captive inside, which helps ease Scotland's headache somewhat. As does the nicotine. He smokes two cigarettes from the packet he'd nicked from Wales that morning, guzzling them down in quick succession whilst France takes his sweet time smoking his first.

When France finally finishes it, he looks back towards the theatre and says, "We should go back in. I suppose you'll be wanting another drink."

Scotland does, quite desperately. Or maybe three, double whiskys for preference, which should be just enough on top of the lager and wine he'd drunk earlier to make him tipsy and might make the remainder of the concert easier to bear.

But there's still that hurdle in the shape of Sebastian to get over first, and then it'll be back to the horrible, too-small chair bending his spine in two and benumbing his arse, all to sit through another god-knows how long of ceaseless, aggravating noise assaulting his eardrums.

The longer he prevaricates, avoiding answering France and making any move towards re-entering the theatre, the more certain he becomes that he just can't do it.

Years ago, as a proviso to them getting back together (yet) again, Scotland had insisted they compromise, in a way they never did in the past when their time together was entirely directed by France's whims. Even now, over three years on, Scotland rarely refuses France anything, because it's equally rare nowadays that France's desires run so contrary to his own that he would want to deny them.

But this is it, apparently. His line in the sand. And it's a trivial one, to be sure, but then that's perhaps why it feels so imperative. This concert is nothing more than a pleasant diversion, or, at least it was supposed to be one, and there's no world-shattering implications hinging on his suffering through the rest of it. With that in mind, he realises he doesn't want to subject himself to even another second of it.

He feels guilty about the decision, all the same. So much so that he feels he has to reassure France that: "You know I love you, right?"

"Of course," France says without hesitation.

"To the moon and back; till the seas gang dry. Rivers, fireworks, all that guff."

France pales, and a faint nick of a worried frown creases his brow. "Scotland, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Except I…" Scotland breathes deep, then forces the rest of his words out in a rush before he can think better of them. "I know you've been looking forward to this concert, but I'm sorry, I… I can't stand it anymore. I think the music's fucking appalling, so I'm going to sit the rest of it out."

"Oh," France says, voice bland, expression even blander, so Scotland can't even begin to guess how upset or angry he might be.

"I'll have a drink with you in the bar now, if you like," Scotland offers, hoping to appease him if the answer to that quandary happens to be 'very'. "And I'll meet up with you as soon as it's over, then we can go for another drink, or a bite to eat. Even a dance, if you like," he adds, a little desperately; a trump card he's never played before, held back to deploy only in extremis. "Whatever you want."

"What I'd like," France says slowly, turning his head aside and watching Scotland out of the corner of one eye, "is to come with you."

Scotland groans, sorry now that he'd ever suggested the idea of his leaving. "You don't have to, _mo ghràdh_. I'll be fine on my own."

"I want to, though." France plucks at his shirtfront, fingers smoothing out imaginary creases: a habit he only ever indulges in when he's unsettled. "I'm… I'm not really enjoying the concert myself, either."

"You're not?" Scotland asks, surprised. He'd certainly given every indication that he was enthralled by the performance, to Scotland's eye.

"I've never just sat down and listened to one of this composer's symphonies before, without any other distractions," France admits. "I think it's perhaps best experienced as background noise."

Scotland thinks even that's a concession too far, but he's not going to argue the toss. "So, drink then?"

France nods. "But not in the theatre bar."

Which is fine by Scotland. "Because the wine's shite?"

"That, and I don't want to run the risk of running into Sebastian again."

"You didn't like him, either?"

"I hate to say this about one of Wales' people," France says, shamefaced, "but he was horribly dull."

Scotland shakes his head wonderingly. "Why didn't you say anything before."

"Because I thought _you_ were enjoying yourself, _mon coeur_," France says. "And you'd spent so much on the tickets…"

"Fuck that," Scotland says. "Just this once, I don't care about wasting the money." He curls an arm around France's shoulders, pulls him close against his side. "Come on, we'll go to the first decent looking pub we find, get ourselves a drink, and then go back to Wales'. Have an early night."

France looks eager enough at that thought, but his smile and the keen, teasing light playing in his eyes is quick to fade. "We shouldn't be _too_ early, though. Cymru and Romano don't get to spend enough time alone together as it is, and I'd hate to disturb them prematurely."

Scotland would _loathe_ to do so, downright shudders at the prospect.

"Best make it _ten_ drinks," he says, "just to be on the safe side. They should be safely tucked up in bed, by then."


End file.
